


Strangers

by princesskay



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Episode: s01e10 Chapter 10, F/F, Missing Scene, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 05:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11730153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: “I just thought I should open those big, bright eyes.”Zoe doesn't believe that's the only reason Claire showed up at her door tonight.





	Strangers

The knock comes on her door late at night - right around the time she used to expect Francis. 

Tonight, she’s writing an article that could hurt him. Badly. Worse than any story about his platform, his beliefs, his voting history, or his past is a story most politicians can never recover from - a story about his personal life. His family. His wife. 

Her heart is pounding as she types each word, knowing she’s going into dangerous territory. She danced with a devil, and now she has to fight him - a waltz exchanged for boxing gloves and a round in the ring with one of the most powerful men in D.C. 

But the knock on the door makes her stop. And for a moment, she’s worried. Is it him? Come to give her a better story like she’d demanded, or perhaps just to threaten her. 

Zoe gets up from the floor, and walks cautiously to the door. 

“Hello?” 

“Zoe Barnes?” A woman’s voice reaches past the thin wood of the door. 

She moves closer to the door, both curious and confused. It isn’t often someone comes knocking on her door, least of all this late at night. 

“Yeah, who is it?” 

“Claire.” There’s a pause before the weighty clarification. “Underwood.” 

Zoe’s chest clutches with nauseating realization. 

What could Francis’ wife possibly want with her, other than to berate her for carrying on an affair with her husband? What else would a woman in her position do? And how did she find out? She can’t imagine Francis would have told her. 

“Zoe?” Claire’s query drifts through the door, jarring her attention back to the present. 

She could ignore the knock, and face a night of insomnia knowing Claire knew. But Zoe has never been the type to run or hide from a difficult situation. 

She unlocks the door. 

Claire strides across the threshold without invitation. Her heels strike the hardwood loudly as she walks unabashedly into Zoe’s apartment announcing, “I’m sorry for not buzzing. Someone was coming in the building when I was downstairs, so I just figured …” 

Zoe rushes after her, a frown twisting her brow at the intrusion. 

As she enters the bedroom, she sees Claire perusing her living space, a look of twisted curiosity on her face. Zoe can only guess she’s imagining Francis here, inhabiting this room, sharing a drink, fucking her. 

She walks past the bed and through the open door leading out onto the fire escape. She steps just outside, and looks up at the night sky visible between the roof of this build and the next. Distant shouting, police sirens, and the honk of car horns echo through the apartment, painfully conspicuous with Claire’s refined, elegant presence dominating the room. 

“This is nice … fire escape.” Claire says, her casual tone unbefitting of the situation. 

Without waiting for a reply, she turns to the clothes rack holding Zoe’s wardrobe, and begins to look through each article of clothing. 

Zoe’s mouth slips open in disbelief. 

“Hey, could you please not go through my things.” She says. 

Still looking through the shirts, Claire casts her a frosty gaze. “Oh I’m sorry, am I intruding?” 

“Yeah, actually … you are.” 

“Well, that makes it a two-way street, I suppose.” Claire says, a cool smile touching her mouth. 

The sick feeling marinating in Zoe’s belly rises up to clutch her throat. So, this  _ is  _ revenge. 

“Okay, if you came here to punish me … fine, I get it.” Zoe says. 

She’d expected anger. Indignation. Perhaps even tears. But it seems that Francis married someone could match him in any way. The detached venom in Claire’s voice is chilling, more effectual than screaming and yelling could have ever managed. 

Claire drops the sleeve of the sweater she’d been inspecting and turns to appraise Zoe’s messy bed. She picks up the legal pad sitting among the disheveled sheets and flips through Zoe’s scrawled notes. 

“It’s such a shame …” She murmurs, “How naive you are.” 

Zoe finds a scrap of simmering anger behind her nausea. She’s sick to death of that image - the image of an innocent, floundering child. Francis had never seen her as anything more than a youthful diversion - and as sick as it was, she’d played along. But she’s done with it. And she won’t have a woman she’s just met labeling her the same way. 

“I am not naive.” She says, firmly. 

“No?” Claire asks, dropping the notebook to the bed. She draws in a breath, her gaze hardening. “I’ve known everything from the beginning, Zoe. My husband and I tell each other everything.” 

The remark saps the heat straight from Zoe’s chest. 

She stares across the room at this statuesque, beautiful woman standing in her bedroom, wondering what the fuck kind of relationship is going on behind the Underwoods’ closed doors. Francis had never once suggested Claire knew. That’s part of what had made it seem so dangerous and exciting. 

Just another lie out of dozens. 

Claire starts across the room, her expression almost compassionate. 

But Zoe feels nothing but threatened as Claire approaches her. 

“Don’t you believe me?” She asks, as she comes to stand just a foot away, trapping Zoe between her and the wall. “Is there are spider I can trap?” 

Zoe can only gaze up at her in gradually mounting horror and disbelief. 

She well recalls that night that she trapped the spider in the wineglass. Francis had urged her to call her dad. He’d put his mouth between her legs, made her come over and over. She had wished him Happy Father’s Day. 

Did Claire know every detail? 

“I’m not here to punish you. Or to tell you to stop.” Claire says, reaching up to stroke a strand of Zoe’s hair, “I just thought I should open those big, bright eyes.” 

Zoe’s stomach twists as Claire’s fingers caress her hair against her shoulder, her cool, blue eyes taking in every nuance and tremble. 

“I think you should leave.” Zoe whispers. 

Claire’s fingers linger in her hair for a brief moment before she let’s go, murmuring, “I think I should too.” 

There’s a lengthy, weighted pause before Claire lifts her chin. “Maybe you aren’t so naive. A lesser woman wouldn’t have opened the door.” 

She turns to go, taking with her the flowery scent of perfume and the suffocating weight of her presence. 

Zoe clears her throat, crossing her arms tight against her ribs. 

“Wait.” She says. 

Claire pauses for a brief moment before turning to face her. 

“Don’t you care what happens to him?” Zoe asks, “I could write some  _ really _ damaging stuff.” 

“Francis is a survivor. He’ll be fine.” 

“You killed the Watershed Bill. Why?” 

Claire chuckles, shaking her head. “I said he’ll be fine, not I’ll give you more ammunition for your article.” 

“This isn’t on the record.” 

“You’re a journalist. It’s always on the record unless it could personally incriminate you.” 

“I’m just curious. I’ve spent the last six months thinking I have Francis figured out, and then you show up. I think I have a right to know what’s been a lie and what’s been the truth all along.” 

“You don’t need me parse out all the details, Zoe. You’re a smart girl.” 

“It’s almost midnight. You didn’t come over here tell me what a smart girl I am.” 

Claire releases a sigh, half-turning so that her face is in the shadows. 

“Francis and I rarely argue, but when we do, it’s significant.” She says, softly. “I found out that you’re the one who told him I killed the Watershed Bill. I need you gone.” 

“And revealing Francis’ true nature is going to make that happen?” 

“I don’t know, will it?” 

Her icy, blue eyes cut from the darkness, straight into Zoe’s chest. 

“It should.” She adds. 

“And you - you’re not disgusted by all this?” Zoe asks, waving to the apartment, “That your husband is fucking a woman young enough to be your own daughter?” 

“Frankly, Zoe, I don’t care how old you are. Just that you’re old enough and big enough to be a problem.” 

“So you were fine with it when it was just sex?” 

Claire smiles, thinly. “As you said, I should leave.” 

“Hey, you’re not the least bit angry at all of this?” Zoe demands, suddenly angry as her indignation crashes like water against the immovable rocks of Claire’s placid facade. “You should be. You should be livid.” 

“You think I should have stopped him?” Claire asks, her expression remaining calm. “My husband won’t be managed. And you - you’re old enough to realize what’s wrong and what’s right. What you and Francis do together is not my responsibility.” 

“Then why  _ did _ you come here?” 

Claire utters a low chuckle, almost inaudible. She turns, her gaze cutting up and down Zoe’s strained expression, her squared shoulders, her trembling fists. 

“I wanted to see.” She says, softly. “You certainly caught my husband’s eye from the moment you showed up on our doorstep. I’m curious … what has him so intrigued. He’s not usually one to let anyone cloud his judgment, least of all a child.” 

Zoe flinches as Claire reaches out to touch her again, her fingertips leaving a burning path down her cheek and jawline. Her fingers pause at Zoe’s chin, forcing her to tilt her head up. 

Her gaze is unforgiving, her expression chiseled from ice. 

Zoe’s breath comes in trembling sips, her lungs locked with horror and mounting exhilaration as Claire leans in. Her mouth pauses hardly an inch from Zoe’s, feeding her sweet, hot breath and the intoxicating scent of her perfume. 

“I’m curious … is it only Congressmen you fuck?” Claire whispers, her low voice carving through Zoe’s middle and down between her legs. “Is taking cock the only thing you enjoy?” 

Paralyzed, Zoe closes her eyes as Claire’s mouth brushes against her own, leaving her lower lip wet with saliva and the tantalizing taste of her tongue. 

When she leans back, Zoe can feel Claire’s gaze dissecting her. 

She opens her eyes slowly. Her heart pounds, and her mouth is bone dry. She swallows thickly, and draws in a shaky breath. 

“I just broke things off with Francis last week.” She says, her voice sounding high-pitched and foreign to her own ears. “Do your really think-”

“I’m not Francis. I’m not a Congressman. I don’t hold public office. I’m just …”  Claire’s voice trails off, a frown touching her brow. 

Zoe looks away. She can identify with that question. They are a club of two, sharing one, unique boat. They both know what it feels like after he leaves - after he uses you, after he builds you up only to tear you back down again. There’s a wasteland in both of them where verdant life and sunshine used to be. That’s what it feels like when he’s interested - and this barren sensation in her chest is what if feels like when he’s not. 

“Where are you going after this?” Zoe asks. “Back home?” 

“No, I’m leaving. Not for good, just for awhile.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Why would you care?” 

“Are you going to tell him?” 

They both hesitate, staring one another down with uncertainty that barely shackles back aching desire. 

“You said you tell each other everything, so are you going to tell him?” Zoe presses. 

“Eventually, yes.” 

Zoe huffs, anxiously stroking her hair back behind her ears. She can’t believe what she’s gotten herself into - and what she’s about to do now. 

“If you think he’ll be angry, he won’t be.” Claire says. 

“He was pretty mad you killed the Watershed Act.” 

“I don’t think I need to tell you this, Zoe, but that bill was far more important to him than you’ll ever be.” 

There’s no condescension or cruelty in Claire’s voice, only abrasive truth. 

Zoe blinks, irritated by the sting of tears in her eyes and the knot in the back of her throat. She turns away, hastily brushing at the corner of her eye with her sleeve. 

Claire’s fingers stroke through her hair again, smoothing it behind her shoulder, and exposing her ear and jawline. 

Zoe presses her eyes shut as the warm weight of Claire’s body adheres to her back, and the heat of her breath washes over Zoe’s cheek. Her lips caress gently against the curve of Zoe’s ear, and nudge against the lobe. 

The thud of Claire’s purse hitting the ground jars Zoe. She spins around, her throat half-opened in a protest she hasn’t quite thought of yet, and Claire’s mouth catches her. A hard, branding kiss quells whatever Zoe might have said, or reasoned. Claire’s lipgloss smears between their mouths, and is burned away in the friction until there’s nothing but their saliva to ease raw lips. 

Claire takes Zoe’s face between her hands, guiding her head back into submission. She requires little effort as she stands a head taller than Zoe, and has all the confidence and determination of a hurricane behind her movements. Zoe is but a trembling sapling caught in the storm, following whatever path the wind and rain lays out. 

With her mouth seizing Zoe’s, Claire slides a hand down to find the bare skin between the waistband of Zoe’s shorts and her shirt. Her fingertips graze along Zoe’s hip, and up against her ribs where Zoe is certain she can feel the pounding of her heartbeat beneath.

Shuddering, Zoe draws back to gulp a breath. 

Claire’s pale blue eyes are magnetic. Beneath their weight, Zoe feels powerless. 

Claire leans in to kiss her again, but Zoe presses both hands to her chest. 

“Wait.” 

Claire’s gaze shifts away, and her chest rises beneath Zoe’s hands in a deep breath. 

“If you’re having seconds thoughts, I should leave like you asked me the first time. In fact, it would probably be best if we pretended like this never happened.” 

Claire begins to take her hands away, but Zoe grabs onto her wrists, pressing them hard against her hips. 

“I have second thoughts about everything.” She says, huffing out a laugh. “But ignoring that first instinct is how I got from metro to CNN in less than a year.” 

“That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be a mistake.” 

“Mistake? Bad choice? Who cares at this point, I’ve already fucked my way to the middle with your husband. What makes you think I’m worried about fucking you?” 

“You’re shaking. Hesitant.” Claire says, her gaze shifting back to Zoe’s with cutting intuition. “It’s okay to admit that you’re scared.” 

“I’m not scared. I’m just asking ... “ 

Claire raises a questioning brow. 

Zoe glances away, feeling her face grow hot. 

“I’ve only done this once before. Been with a-” 

“A woman.” 

Zoe sucks in a breath, forcing herself to meet Claire’s cool, collected gaze. “Yes.” 

“What’s the question?” 

“Don’t assume because I’ve done something fucked up or kinky with Francis that means I know what I’m doing.” 

“It’s not all that different.” 

Claire offers no other reassurance before she takes Zoe by the back of the neck, and draws her into another hot, generous kiss. Zoe leans into it this time, excitement racing through her chest. 

She’s struck by how freeing this moment feels, how wildly opposite the sensations are to that first night she’d shared with Francis. That night she had felt scandalous and mature, dark and deviant. She’d known from the moment he entered her apartment that she was constructing the biggest secret of her life. It had been all hard, bruising strokes, bared teeth, feral thrusting. 

As powerful as Claire is, her touch is still achingly soft, tempered and steady. Her mouth tastes faintly of wine, and Zoe wonders how many drinks she had before coming here. Enough to loosen the tongue, enough to make her repeat her husband’s mistakes. 

Zoe closes her eyes against the degrading thought. 

She isn’t a whore. This isn’t a business transaction. There is no story to be gained. It's just two people connecting over shared betrayal, and a mutual desire to be touched, loved, to feel something - anything. 

Zoe feels herself floating up, her body turning weightless and delicate. Her whole body is alive with the pulse of need originating low in her belly and rippling outward. She clutches at the collar of Claire’s coat, and rises up on her toes to fasten her mouth harder to Claire’s. 

Claire’s hand slips under her shirt, and molds to the curve of her lower back. She drags  Zoe against her, uttering a low moan of pleasure - the first sign that she is as human as Zoe, and not some omniscient being carved from marble. 

Pulling back, Claire briefly caresses Zoe’s cheek with her thumb. 

“Go to the bed.” She whispers, her voice husky, barely audible. 

Zoe swallows thickly as the sum of her actions solidify into reality. 

She’s going to do it. 

This is not a dream. Not a fantasy. She can still taste Claire’s mouth on hers, and this is real. 

“Go.” Claire murmurs, nodding toward Zoe’s unmade bed. 

Zoe shuffles back a few feet, and finally turns to face the mattress. She walks unsteadily to the edge, and puts both hands out to crawl toward the middle. 

She falls to the bed on her side, and rolls over to watch Claire saunter towards her. 

Unbuttoning her coat, Claire shrugs out of the heavy, wool fabric that conceals her figure. Underneath, she’s wearing a black dress that hugs and accents every curve. 

Zoe has seen women this beautiful on TV and in magazines. Photoshopped, airbrushed images of perfection with full, glossy lips and plump, creamy breasts. But that’s not quite the kind of beauty that Claire is. She isn’t soft. No inviting smile. No long, flowing tresses. Her beauty is severe, her body slender, but toned and compiled of sharp edges. 

_ Ice queen _ is a fictional trope come alive in Zoe’s bedroom. Cold eyes devouring her, frosty lips about to go down between her legs. 

Zoe gulps back a shiver, and curls both hands into fists to bolster her confidence. She meets Claire’s gaze and strongly as she can. 

“Take your shorts off.” Claire says, her voice slithering like ether through Zoe’s body and brain. 

Zoe’s hands push her shorts down before her brain can process the command. She kicks them off her ankles, eager to please. 

Claire peruses her conquest with a meandering gaze. Turning from the edge of the bed, she walks to Zoe’s dresser, and removes her earrings. She sets the gold pieces side-by-side on the dresser, and reaches back to unzip her dress. 

Zoe watches with bated breath as the black fabric parts from her shoulders. 

Claire tugs the dress from her chest, and allows it fall from her hips. The dress sinks to the floor, leaving behind black undergarments that look more expensive than Zoe’s entire wardrobe put together. 

Stepping out of her heels, she wanders to the edge of the bed. 

Zoe takes her in with wide eyes. Her balled hands shake against the clutch, and she can feel her nails biting into her palms. 

She waits mere seconds for Claire to make the next move before her impatience takes over. Sitting up, she yanks her shirt off over her head, and reaches back to unstrap her bra. 

Claire lifts her chin, her nostrils flaring softly. 

Zoe tosses the garments aside, and leans forward, displaying her naked breasts. She takes them in her hands, plumping them up against her chest and pinching her nipples until they’re hard and dusky. 

She keeps her gaze pinned to Claire’s, pressing a challenge into the charged air between them. 

“Stop.” Claire says, her voice a quiet, but commanding whisper. 

Zoe lets her hands fall from her breasts, leaving them aching and pink. 

“Lay back.” 

Zoe leans back against the pillows, her body rigid with anticipation. 

A whimper rises in the back of her throat as Claire lifts her knee onto the edge of the mattress, and crawls forward. 

Zoe spreads her legs as Claire prowls forward, making no indication that she’ll issue any other orders. She crawls between Zoe’s legs, and plants her hands in the pillows on either side of Zoe’s head. Her breasts sway against the constraint of her bra just above Zoe’s face. 

She leans down to impart a soft, but deliberate kiss to Zoe’s open mouth. Zoe arches up for contact as the kiss grows heated and impatient in a matter of moments. She catches Claire by the hip, surprising herself with her own boldness as she drags Claire down on top of her. 

Their bodies meld together, heat and desire coiling in both of them and oozing out through every pore. Zoe’s breasts press against Claire’s, the patterned lace of Claire’s bra chafing against Zoe’s swollen nipples. 

Claire draws back first, her forehead pressing against Zoe’s with thready control. Her breaths rush hot and shallow across Zoe’s face as their eyes meet. 

“The moment I saw you … I knew.” Claire whispers, her voice raspy, etched with equal parts acceptance and anger. “I knew he was going to fuck you.” 

“And did you know you were going to?” Zoe’s reply is twisted with a moan as she rolls her hips against Claire’s and feels Claire’s pubic bone grind into her. 

“No.” Claire whispers, sliding her hand down to claim Zoe’s breast. “But I thought about it.” 

She ducks her head, taking the puffy, pink tip of Zoe’s breast in her mouth. 

Zoe’s face twists in pleasure, and a groan makes it’s way with haste past her lips. The heat churning with slow, steady revolutions between her legs switches to urgent, pumping need as Claire’s lips suction around tender skin, dragging it in and out of her mouth. The languid suckling brings Zoe’s hands clutching at Claire’s hair, only to be pinned to the mattress by Claire’s stronger grasp. 

Zoe whines and writhes until Claire’s mouth slides away, and she lifts her head, leaving Zoe’s nipple rosy pink and glistening. 

Zoe tilts her head back against the pillow, breathing out, “Oh, God.” 

Claire’s breath trickles down her chest, transitioning slowly toward her other breast. Zoe clamps her mouth shut as Claire’s tongue slides against the curve of her breast, winding it’s way around her nipple, until it’s trapped between her lips with the same torturous bliss as the first. 

This time, she sucks harder, longer. 

Zoe moans as a shaft of pain that goes through her tender skin, and when Claire finally lifts her head, they can both see the blooming pink and purple starting below the surface. 

“You shouldn’t leave marks on me.” Zoe whispers. 

“Let him notice.” 

Claire’s head dips again, this time traveling down the quiver of Zoe’s belly. She shifts lower on the bed as she makes her way down. Her palms trace Zoe’s ribs, and the swells of her hips, pausing only for a brief moment to hook firmly around the waistband of her panties. She drags them down gradually, leaving burning kisses where the fabric once was. 

Zoe squirms, biting back the whimpers piling at the back of her throat. Surges of heat go through her with every inch lower her panties slide. She can feel the slick heat pumping from her as Claire brings the garment down to her ankles, and tosses them aside. 

She nudges Zoe’s legs apart, letting go only when Zoe has complied entirely, her legs splayed out across the width of the mattress. 

Zoe’s belly lurches with need as Claire’s gaze travels up her calf and thigh to where she’s exposed, throbbing, wet. She curls her hands into fists around the sheets, keeping her anchored to the bed in place. Her face is flushed with blazing heat, desire soaring between her thighs. 

She’s never felt this exposed, this vulnerable, this small. And if she had known Claire could do all this to her in such a brief span of time, she wouldn’t have ever hesitated. 

Claire leans forward, launching Zoe’s heartbeat into a palpitating race. She’s frozen to the bed, watching with powerless satisfaction as Claire’s head dips down between her legs, and her hand rises up to spread over Zoe’s belly. 

Zoe’s fragmented self-control scatters to the wind as Claire’s mouth takes her. 

A sharp, twisted cry spills from her throat, and her hand flies down to claim a handful of Claire’s hair. She thrusts her hips into the rapturous, velvet stroke of Claire’s mouth, eager for the blunt, aching throb of arousal leading up to a powerful climax. 

Claire’s tongue slides out to greet Zoe’s swollen clitoris, her first few strokes gentle and priming. Zoe shudders against the caress, gasping in thin breaths, cursing low and husky as the tease of Claire’s tongue slowly evolves into firm, deliberate swirling. 

Heat clamps low in her belly, a shaft of aching pain followed by premature spasms of pleasure. Her body draws taut, every fiber of her straining toward the promise of orgasm. She squeezes her eyes shut in razor-sharp concentration, breathing only when she needs to, moving only when she can’t contain the shiver of severe, blistering arousal. 

Claire’s mouth is persistent and patient, bringing Zoe toward the zenith of potent pleasure. She does not command it from Zoe; she draws it out slowly, diligently, each stroke shaping Zoe’s desire and arousal, each caress crafting the next clutch of her Zoe’s body that will eventually send her spilling over the edge. 

Zoe manages to open her eyes, and watch as Claire’s head moves and bobs between her legs. She gazes down Claire’s braced shoulders, rippling with toned muscles beneath, and the glimpse of her rounded backside, barely concealed in the scrap of lace. Zoe lets her head fall back to the pillows, smiling in utter pleasure and satisfaction - at the pleasure winding around her like a restraining rope, and at the very fact that a woman like Claire is between her thighs. 

_ But not a woman like Claire _ , she corrects herself -  _ just Claire  _ \- because she’s certain she’s never met anyone like Claire,  and probably never will. 

The thought is eclipsed by pleasure - wild, racing, crushing pleasure. 

She’s bucking into Claire’s mouth, orgasm pumping through every vein and fiber, taking her and twisting her to it’s will. She grabs at Claire’s hair, making certain Claire’s mouth stays with her jagged motions, and swallows every gush of sweet, wet release that floods from within. 

Faintly, she hears Claire grunt and moan - then all thought is stripped away as Claire laps up her wetness, and clamps her mouth around Zoe’s still pulsing clitoris. She sucks the final spasms from Zoe’s delicate, trembling body; she sucks until it hurts, and Zoe twists away, her mouth stretched open in  a wordless, breathless gasp that is somehow both a plea for mercy and a request for more. 

Claire draws back, observing Zoe’s lax expression in the afterglow, the ripples dying out across her skin, the come trickling from her pussy and dampening the sheets. 

She licks Zoe a few last times before pushing herself up onto her knees. 

Zoe breaths heavily, and slowly lifts her gaze to Claire’s. She feels as if she’s being skinned alive by Claire’s sharp, formidable gaze. 

“That was-” Zoe begins, her voice mangled and hoarse with pleasure. 

“You don’t have to say anything.” Claire murmurs. 

She shifts over to the unoccupied space on the bed beside Zoe, and lays down flat on her back. Her hair is pressed to her forehead by a faint sheen of perspiration, and her cheeks the dusty pink of flower petals. 

With another partner, Zoe might have rolled over to offer an embrace, but this situation doesn’t lend itself to cuddling. They’re not lovers, they’re strangers. 

Zoe turns onto her side, and tugs the pillow under her chin. 

She watches Claire’s profile, wondering what’s happening behind those cold, blue eyes. What motivation had brought her here - truly - and what had made her stay? Zoe doesn’t believe any of the explanations Claire has given so far, but perhaps fiction is kinder than truth. 

But she’s been living in a fiction long enough. 

“You should take your underwear off.” Zoe says. 

Claire’s gaze darts from the ceiling to meet Zoe’s. It’s the first moment of genuine response Zoe has seen tonight. 

“I’m completely naked here.” Zoe says, motioning to her body. “You should be too.” 

Claire gazes at her, her face blank of expression, for a few moments before she sits upright, and reaches back to unclasp her bra. 

Zoe rolls onto her back, and laces her hands behind her head as Claire discards the bra, and takes off her panties. Claire casts a glance over her bare shoulder, a look that says  _ happy now?  _

Zoe nods her chin toward the bed in invitation. 

Claire lays back, running a hand through her hair. Her pert breasts slide down against her ribs, nipples standing hard and pink with exposure. 

Zoe reaches out to gingerly touch her. She slides her thumb up and over Claire’s nipple, and then pushes her palm up against the pliable flesh. 

Claire draws in a shaky breath, and closes her eyes. 

Biting her lower lip in concentration and exhilaration, Zoe kneads Claire’s breast for a moment before sliding her palm down the flat, quivering plane of her belly. 

“My, my, you’re much more confident than you led me to believe.” Claire whispers. 

She doesn’t open her eyes, but she spreads her legs in invitation. 

“Sex makes me reckless.” Zoe replies, pushing up onto her elbow to gaze down at Claire’s placid expression. “It makes me feel powerful.” 

Inside, her heart is pounding, but the surge of adrenaline only fuels the euphoria swirling through her brain, and the commanding desire twitching in her fingers. 

She guides her hand down Claire’s belly, and against her thigh. She drags Claire’s legs open wider with her palm flat against her inner thigh. The pleasure of watching Claire’s legs part, exposing her glistening labia and dusky clitoris, sends dizzying pleasure ricocheting through Zoe’s brain. 

“Does it make you feel powerful?” She whispers. 

“Sometimes.” 

“What about the other times?” 

“Why do other times matter,” Claire asks, opening her eyes at last, “When this is the time that’s happening now?” 

“It feels good to be with me?” 

Claire gazes at her wide-eyed, for a half a second before nodding, and Zoe glimpses someone vulnerable, perhaps wounded just behind the cold facade. 

Zoe purses her lips in concentration as she slides two fingers down Claire’s wet slit. Her body is hot, skin soft like velvet, slick with arousal. She shudders and moans at the gentle caress, her back arching in a decadent pose of need. Empowered, Zoe strokes the tender folds of her labia apart, and swirls her fingers through the steady gush of arousal pumping from her taut opening. Keeping her pace slow, she circles her fingers softly up and around Claire’s swollen clitoris. 

Claire’s eyes squeeze shut, her teeth leaving indentations in her lower lip. Her legs arch and shudder around Zoe’s wrist, but she digs her toes into the mattress to keep herself still and open. 

Zoe touches her carefully, just as she would herself. She’s spent plenty of nights alone and horny, priming herself with grazing, teasing strokes, allowing the need to develop to constant thrum before rubbing her clit to orgasm. 

She knows how she likes it; she hopes Claire likes it that way. 

There’s no objection from Claire’s mouth as Zoe touches her gradually, small, shallow strokes that bring arousal to the edge, but keeps her from falling away into release.

She twists only a little, and drags the sheets into white-knuckled fists. Her eyes stay firmly shut in concentration while her mouth purses and straining, meting out the lowest and soft of moans. 

Zoe presses closer, a thin smile tugging at her mouth as she slides her fingers down. She pauses for a brief, aching moment before delving her fingers into Claire’s hot, slick pussy. 

“Oh, Jesus …” Claire rasps, softly, her mouth stretching open in a gasp. 

Her legs strain open, hips tilting into the languid pump of Zoe’s hand. Zoe keeps the pace gentle until Claire’s thrusting sets the pace, and she lets her fingers slide in and out to Claire’s satisfaction. 

“Yes …” She whispers, her face twisting with pleasure. 

Zoe’s chest expands with exhilaration, a powerful sensation like a drug filtering through her brain. She can almost feel Claire’s pleasure vibrating to the surface, the tide of incoming climax rippling through through bones and layers of skin, ready to lunge at the perfect touch. 

Claire’s rocking hips come to a shuddering halt. Her hand is shaking as she reaches down to guide Zoe’s fingers from within her and back against her throbbing clit. Her hand hovers over Zoe’s as Zoe massages her in a quick, firm rhythm. 

“Yes, yes …” Claire pants, her head tilting back. 

A flush spills up her straining throat and cheeks, and her moaning scales back to hushed anticipation. Her fingers hovering over Zoe’s clamp down around Zoe’s wrist, nails biting into flesh, as the pleasure rises up to claim her. She gives a low cry as the spasms start, her legs closing around Zoe’s hand, her hips pumping up and down in uncontrolled, blissful motions. 

Zoe eats up her open-mouthed, flushed expression of orgasm, her own lips sliding open as she feels slick heat gushing against her fingers. Instant, dizzying satisfaction rushes through her chest, her brain, leaving her shaking, tingling. 

As Claire’s grip on her wrist falls away, and she relaxes back against the sheets, Zoe bites back a smile. 

She has lived off validation for as long as she can remember. Chasing after something, getting it, being recognized for it. Even realizing it matches the feeling she’d had that first night with Francis doesn’t dull the shine of the moment entirely. 

Claire opens her eyes after several long moments of controlled breathing. 

“May I use your bathroom?” She asks. 

“Of course.” 

Rising from the bed, Claire goes into the bathroom, and shuts the door firmly. Zoe hears the lock turn. 

With a sigh, she flops back against the pillows, and grabs her phone from the night stand. She scrolls through Twitter, and then Slugline. There’s nothing on either site to distract her from what she’s done. And she knows no matter how good it feels right now, she’ll wake up tomorrow morning with her constant companion - regret. 

Work only serves to remind her of the tough spot she’s in, and of Francis. 

Setting the phone aside, Zoe gets up from the bed, and walks to the dresser. She picks up Claire’s earrings, inspecting the gold and inlaid gems. Real gold, real diamonds. She’s holding the worth of a small country in her hand. 

She puts them in, and tilts the mirror toward her so that she can see the glinting jewelry in her ears. She tosses her hair back from her jaw, and turns her head from side to side. 

On Claire, they’re tasteful. On her, they’re gaudy. 

A whore, all dressed up in gems paid for with sex. 

“Do you like them?” 

She gasps, spinning around to see Claire exiting the bathroom. 

“They’re beautiful. I just put them in to see-”

“It’s all right.”

Zoe turns back to the mirror with a frown as Claire gathers her clothes from her around Zoe’s feet. 

“Don’t you find it a little fucked up that the only reason we’re here - two women - is because a man hurt us both?” 

“If you had feminist bones, maybe you wouldn’t have slept with my husband.” 

Zoe shoots Claire a cutting gaze. “What I do with my body is my choice.” 

“I didn’t come here to put you down, but you asked the question.” 

“And what’s your answer? Your real answer.” 

“I’m not here for Francis.” Claire says, “When I see something that I want, I take it.” 

“He would probably find it really hot.” Zoe says, crossing her arms. “You and me fucking.” 

Claire’s chin tilts up against the remark. “He might.” 

Zoe watches as Claire puts on her clothes. Without the hum and glow of pleasure to cloud her judgment, she feels cheap, used. Not that she blames Claire. They were using each other. And after tonight, they’ll probably never see each other again. 

“Do you want your earrings back?” 

Claire throws her coat over her shoulders, and gives Zoe an airy smile. “Keep them.” 

“What, as a gift?” 

“I have ten other pairs almost identical at home.” 

She turns to leave, but Zoe follows hers. 

“And what about me?” Zoe asks, “Have you had ten other girls just like me?” 

“You said your body is your choice. If you believe that, why do you need me to tell you that you’re not a whore?” 

Zoe crosses her arms, suddenly biting back harsh tears. 

She feels like Icarus. She flew too high, and now she’s crashing. It’s a strange mix of emotion to discover such pleasure and such despair in the space of an hour. 

“You asked for honesty.” Claire says, “You wanted to know the truth. Well, this is the truth, Zoe. My husband uses people - and then he throws them away. I’m not here to pick up after him, or to claim his sloppy seconds. I’m here because I see a bright young woman who could have a successful career. You can write, Zoe - _ very well.  _ Francis is using it to his advantage. Find a way to do it without him.” 

She’s gone before Zoe can force herself to move. 

The apartment is empty again, and cold. The weight of the earrings in Zoe’s lobes are like two stones dragging her head below water. 

_ Find a way to do it without him.  _

Zoe sinks to the floor, expecting tears. But this time, they don’t come. She feels numb and powerless knowing that she got herself into this situation, and that Francis pinned her under is thumb, and that now she’s trapped in this  _ quid pro quo  _ arrangement that never seems to be enough to satisfy either of them. 

_ Find a way to do it without him.  _

Nearly impossible. 

When her cell phone vibrates a few hours later, and she sees the message from Francis it only takes her ten minutes to respond. 

He’s there in her apartment within the hour, fucking her into the mattress. She closes her eyes, remembering Claire’s mouth against her. 

She wonders where Claire went after this, and if she’ll be back. If she’ll escape and be happy. She could be free. Zoe closes her eyes as Francis grunts against her ear and finishes, thinking that maybe more than his weight on top of her more, than the cage he has her trapped in, more than the sting of rejection, and her inability to turn him down, she hates Claire for that freedom most of all. 

 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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